For Mary
I met my neighbor the other day. Her name is Mary, and her husband is Bob. They live across from me on our narrow, one-way street and I've seen them many times getting in and out of their little tan car. They're pretty old.
Bob always has to help Mary down their front steps, and back up again when they return. He holds her by her upper arm to steady her as they make their way up the five steps. Mary makes a habit of standing on her front porch for long stretches of time, doing what appears to be absolutely nothing at all. She just stands there under the awning.
A few days ago, I was walking to my car and Mary called me over to her. She has a raspy, jaunty voice. She asked me if my name was Sally. We talked in the street for a few minutes. At one point she pulled me over to her so I wouldn't get hit by a car. She was pretty strong.
When I got home later that day, I was still thinking about Mary. She was so interesting and strange. So I wrote a poem.
Mary
She always wears wide black
wraparound sunglasses. After lunch
she stands on her stoop for an hour or two
under the shade and shelter of
a rusting aluminum awning
as if awaiting formal guests.
She waves and waves me over, but
I don’t recognize her without her glasses,
and her yellowed smile, too many teeth
pushing forward, distracts me from her face.
I believe her
that they steal the cars around here,
and that’s why she watches
from the porch, since she used to know
everyone up the street – here she flourishes
her arm like a girl, like a dancer – but now
they have all died, or moved
on to bigger homes that they have
purchased. Still, her yard is kept
and seasonally appropriate, mechanized
deer in the winter, spinning pastel
windmills in the summer, green wooden
cut-outs of frogs and dwarves each spring.
I believe her that things just aren’t
friendly anymore, like she thinks I am. Perhaps
she thinks we will be good neighbors, we will
wave hello from our porches, drink
lemonade on her stoop and watch
silently for thieves. I’m not young, she
says, but I get it.
Bob always has to help Mary down their front steps, and back up again when they return. He holds her by her upper arm to steady her as they make their way up the five steps. Mary makes a habit of standing on her front porch for long stretches of time, doing what appears to be absolutely nothing at all. She just stands there under the awning.
A few days ago, I was walking to my car and Mary called me over to her. She has a raspy, jaunty voice. She asked me if my name was Sally. We talked in the street for a few minutes. At one point she pulled me over to her so I wouldn't get hit by a car. She was pretty strong.
When I got home later that day, I was still thinking about Mary. She was so interesting and strange. So I wrote a poem.
Mary
She always wears wide black
wraparound sunglasses. After lunch
she stands on her stoop for an hour or two
under the shade and shelter of
a rusting aluminum awning
as if awaiting formal guests.
She waves and waves me over, but
I don’t recognize her without her glasses,
and her yellowed smile, too many teeth
pushing forward, distracts me from her face.
I believe her
that they steal the cars around here,
and that’s why she watches
from the porch, since she used to know
everyone up the street – here she flourishes
her arm like a girl, like a dancer – but now
they have all died, or moved
on to bigger homes that they have
purchased. Still, her yard is kept
and seasonally appropriate, mechanized
deer in the winter, spinning pastel
windmills in the summer, green wooden
cut-outs of frogs and dwarves each spring.
I believe her that things just aren’t
friendly anymore, like she thinks I am. Perhaps
she thinks we will be good neighbors, we will
wave hello from our porches, drink
lemonade on her stoop and watch
silently for thieves. I’m not young, she
says, but I get it.
posted by Jackie at 4:42 PM
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